


A Tender Ruination

by Iron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare is important, Breeding Kink, Inflation Kink, Knotting, Long Term Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sweet and Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22418107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Thunderclash has a knot and the overstimulation is exactly what Rodimus needs. After, Thunderclash takes care of him.
Relationships: Thunderclash/Rodimus
Comments: 9
Kudos: 134





	A Tender Ruination

It had almost become routine, at this point. Rodimus got excited, restless, bounced around from project to project without able to do much of anything, scattered and anxious. Thunderclash would come by, usually to his office, and ask him to end work early that day. He’d do it on his own day off, to let him prepare everything in their hab for it, and to make sure that he urged Rodimus to fuel properly before it. He makes sure Rodimus has seen Ratchet that day, to check the rod in his forge that will turn the nanites that he plans to pour in to his forge inert, and to pick up heat packs for the next morning. 

At the end of the work day he sweeps by to pick him up from the office, scooping Rodimus into his arms and carrying him back to their hab. He sets him down at the door, all thrumming engine and eagerness, hungry for his pretty little mate. 

Thunderclash gently urges Rodimus into their berth, front to his back, hands on his hips. Rodimus makes little desperate sounds as Thunderclash latches his denta around the top edge of one yellow spoiler wing, urging him to rest one knee on the berth. Thunderclash slides one hand up Rodimus’s leg when the opening shows itself, thumb sliding over the already wet seam of his panel. Thunderclash’s engine thrums with pleasure at knowing how much his mate wants this. ::Open up for me.:: 

“Eager, ‘Clash?” Rodimus wiggles his hips as he opens, valve immediately drooling lubricants down his thighs. Thunderclash turns his helm to snuffle against the side of his neck, smiling. 

“For you, star fire, always.” That question hand finds the soft lips of his valve, thumb pressing against them and pressing until they push inside, parting them around the thick digit. The tip of it scrapes gently against the wet and already loose ring of Rodimus’s first circle of calipers, pressing into him. It clutches down on his thumb, eager, and Thunderclash quickly follows it with another. “Your valve is so hungry for me,” he moans. “It already wants me to fill you up.” 

It pulls a startled laugh from Rodimus. “You’re fragging cheesy, ‘Clash.” 

Thunderclash nuzzles his neck. “Maybe. Get up on the berth, my love, knees wide.” 

He scrambles up onto the berth, Thunderclash helping him up and settling him knees wide enough that Thunderclash can slot his hips between his thighs. It’s only then that Thunderclash pops his panel, letting the fat head of his spike push and rub against Rodimus’s plush valve lips. He slides himself through the soft folds, gathering lubricants on the tip of his spike and Rodimus pants and tries to angle his hips to encourage the spike to slide inside him. It nudges at the back of his node, a soft grind that lets pleasure build tight behind his spike, and the next pass just barely nudges at his entrance. It stretches that first ring of calipers, before Thunderclash is pulling back and grinding his spike to his soft mesh again instead of doing what Rodimus _wants_ and pushing _in_ \- 

Rodimus keens when Thunderclash finally sits himself inside his valve, the sensation of that spike - only a third, he knows from experience, as much as Thunderclash will ever risk pushing into him unprepared - stretching him wide forcing him into overload. Thunderclash hardly stills for him there, rutting into him, hard and fast and furious. The point in this is not to draw out their lovemaking, but to wring as much pleasure as he can from Rodimus’s frame, overload him until he’s pliant and loose ready to be filled. 

A third one rips through him, and Rodimus collapses on his front, face in the berth as he screams out his pleasure. His valve spasms around Thunderclash’s spike, trying to milk the too-big spike as it nuzzles at his ceiling nose and butts up against the entrance to his forge. Thunderclash stills, there, and finally lets himself decide to end this. 

He leans over Rodimus’s back, going still and soft as protocols he usually shunts aside ping him for acceptance. “I’m going to engage the knot now. Remember the rules - if it gets to be too much, say _Optimus_.” 

Rodimus nods frantically. “Please, please, please -“ 

The knot swells at the base of his spike painfully slowly, stretching the first few rings of calipers in his valve with every thrust inside his limp little racer. As it grows Thunderclash ends each inward thrust with a sweet little grind, savoring the way the little valve squeezes down on his spike. Halfway through the process Rodimus moans and overloads again, spike spitting mere dribbles as he wails. When it grows to the point where Thunderclash can do no more than rock weakly into his valve, that is exactly what he does: grind into him, head of his spike hitting his ceiling node with unerring accuracy. Firmly stuck, he feels his transfluid tank clench and ache, overfull, and finally spill into his pretty racer in endless waves of pleasure. 

Thunderclash holds him tight, hands around Rodimus’s narrow waist as the mech squirms on the fat knot spreading his valve wide, plush valve lips smooshed against Thunderclash’s panel. Thunderclash moves one hand to Rodimus’s stomach, feeling the way his belly has begun to swell, hot and full of Thunderclash’s transfluid. Thunderclash moans softly, hips shove-shove-shoving to get as deep as he can into the hot, sweet little valve around his spike. Each time his spike spews transfluid into him, every time Rodimus’s skinny little abdomen grows with his nanites, Thunderclash grows hot and needy and feels his transfluid tank dredge up just another spurt of them for him. He leans over his spoiler, watching him claw at his sheets and shove his own blanket in his mouth to hide his begging noises. “I’m going to fill you so full that you’re stuffed full of me for weeks, Rodimus, I’m going to stuff you so full you’ll bear me a whole clutch of sparklings.” He moans, lost in the thought of it - Rodimus round and soft, full of his nanites and his sparkling, the hot hard swell of their growing progeny caught between Rodimus and the berth as Thunderclash knots him - and his spike gives one last, weak spurt at the thought of it before his tank is completely empty. 

It’s only then that he notices how still Rodimus has gotten, limp on the berth with his helm turned to one side, drooling on the cover. His hands are loosely fisted in the blanket, spine loose and letting him puddle on the berth. “Rodimus? Are you okay?” He runs a hand down his side, feeling the way he’s trembling like a horse that’s been run too hard. 

It takes a good few seconds before Rodimus does more than gurgle, finally working enough feeling back into his mouth to whisper to Thunderclash that he’s “so fragging good, ‘clash, full, I’m _full_...” voice so slurred that Thunderclash can hardly understand him. Thunderclash keeps petting him, humming softly as he grinds his knot into Rodimus’s overfull valve. 

“You’re so pretty like this, fragged out and limp with it.” Thunderclash lets his weight rest on Rodimus, pressing him into the berth as he nuzzles the side of his helm. So full of his transfluids and engine purring with the pleasure of it. 

He feels his knot deflate, spike slowly sinking back into its sheath. Wetness follows in its wake, and he leverages himself up to find the cloth they’d had set aside for after the scene. Rodimus rolls over on the berth with a soft whine, shoving his fingers against his valve, scooping up escaping transfluid and trying to stuff it back inside him. Thunderclash is so caught up in watching him that he almost forgets to grab the plug he’d set out too. 

Rodimus writhes, almost sobbing, vents hitching as a puddle grows under his aft. Thunderclash makes soft shushing noises, petting his thigh softly. “Do you want me to put the plug in you? Keep all my warm transfluid inside you?” His little mate nods rapidly, fingers making a squishing noise as he tries to keep more from escaping. “I have you, I’ve got you, let me plug you up and keep you all nice and full.” He thrums his engine for poor Rodimus, taking the soft, wide, slightly textured orange plug and pushing it into Rodimus’s valve. 

It slides in easily at first, but at its very widest point it’s just barely wider than Thunderclash’s own knot, and that had been almost too wide for Rodimus’s accommodating valve. Now, even wet and loose and willing, Rodimus squeaks as the wides point is gently worked into him. Once its through that first ring of calipers the rest follows easily, letting Thunderclash work the hairs’ breath of narrow silicone past that wide point into him, watching the ring of calipers collapse and twitch and weep, loose and worked open, around the handle. 

Thunderclash can’t help himself; that little ring of calipers is too pretty to resist, fluttering and just begging to be kissed. He presses his lip plates to it, feeling it move against them. He tastes himself and he tastes sweet lubricants, and it makes a hunger open up in his tank. Strong thighs squeeze his audials, and Thunderclash gently wraps his hands around them and hitches them up, pulling that pretty aft clear up from the berth to let him lap and nuzzle at dirty plating. He’s sobbing openly now, fingers scrabbling weakly at Thunderclash’s helm fins, tugging him closer to Rodimus’s array. Thunderclash keeps cleaning him with soft passes of his glossa, pressing his glossa to that weakly fluttering ring of calipers. He can press the tip of his glossa inside Rodimus’s valve, and he teases the sensor rich edge until it’s so lose Thunderclash is almost afraid the that the plug will slip out of him. 

He kisses his way up the plush, slick petals of Rodimus’s valve until he can latch his lips around his blinking node instead, and Rodimus lurches into a screaming, spine-bending overload. His frame goes tense, then limp, fans screaming as they try to expel the excess heat in his frame. Thunderclash lathes his glossa over the broad length of Rodimus’s valve soothingly before realizing that the mech had passed out from the overload. He pulls away reluctantly, picking up the wash cloth from before and carefully sweeping it over Rodimus’s frame. When he wakes up Thunderclash will carry him to the bath and let hot solvents soothe the aches that will no doubt fill his frame. For now he cleans him as best he can, wrapping him in a warm, soft blanket and laying him out on the couch so that Thunderclash can clean off the berth. A soft place to sleep and a warm bath; Thunderclash has the routine memorized by now. He still does it all lovingly, setting aside a cube to be heated up for when Rodimus is ready to fuel, his favorite blanket spread out on the berth, their best oils set into the tiny heater he’d bought when he realized Rodimus disliked them rubbed into his frame cold. 

When he’s done preparing Rodimus is still asleep, so Thunderclash starts up the washrack and cleans his own frame off, first, quick and efficient just in case Rodimus might wake up alone. He’s just coming too when Thunderclash steps out. His optics are dim from exhaustion, but he musters up a smile for him anyways. Thunderclash kneels next to the couch. “Feeling alright, my spark light?” 

“Full,” Rodimus admits. “But it’s good.” 

“Not hurting?” 

“Sore. Nothing too bad.” He laughs a bit, hands reaching for Thunderclash. “I feel like I’ve pushed a bowling ball out of my valve, but you took care of me. You always do.” 

Thunderclash leans close, and Rodimus wraps him arms around his shoulders. Thunderclash scoops him up off of the couch, careful not to jostle his hips too much. With the size of the plug inside him there’s not much room left for him to twist around too much. Thunderclash carries him carefully into the washrack, unwrapping him in his lap and laying him out inside the empty bathtub. He hadn’t had time to fill it and hadn’t done it before for fear of the solvents getting cold, but he couldn’t leave Rodimus alone. There was nothing worse for him than being left alone. 

Now the warm solvents fill the tub, gushing over his peds and gently lapping its way up his legs and torso. Thunderclash gathers handfuls of solvents to pour over the rest of him, taking special care to wet his still-round belly. Rodimus catches the way his optics are glued onto the swell, rubbing it with his own hands as Thunderclash watches. 

The tub is only fill part way before Thunderclash takes up a sponge and wraps a hand around Rodimus’s wrist, raising his arm up to pass the wet sponge over scuffed plating. Even with just the solvents, the worst of it washes away quickly. He does the same to the other arm, careful to make sure Rodimus never feels too crowded or trapped against the side of the bath. That had been an issue, the first few times, before Thunderclash had learned to keep an optic on Rodimus’s face and watch for rising panic. But Rodimus had always let Thunderclash bath him anyways, and Thunderclash learned what he needed to give Rodimus when he did. 

He sets his wrist down in the water and picks up a bottle of spicy-scented soap, pouring it on the sponge and working it into a lather. This he works over Rodimus’s peds, up towards his thighs, being careful not to jostle the handle of the plug settled in his valve. He takes the corner of the sponge and gently cleans out the seams of his thighs and groin, where the solvents hadn’t washed away their mixed transfluid and lubricants. The mesh of his valve is swollen and hot to the touch, slick until he carefully wipes away the solvent-resistant lubricants. He works his way down from his shoulders after, running the sponge over his neck, using the corner to clean out his chest piece, following the lines of the flame deco on his chest. 

He’s almost asleep again by the time Thunderclash is ready to wash his back. He groans when Thunderclash helps him lean forwards, hands pressing into his swollen belly as Thunderclash gently splashes solvents onto his spoiler wings and back. He almost moans with relief when Thunderclash releases the drain seal and the solvents start to drain, Thunderclash reaching for a soft towel to wipe him down with, and another to wrap him in when he’s done. 

He carries Rodimus back to the berthroom, laying him out on the berth. The oils next to the berth have been warmed, and they shimmer in the low light of the lamp as he carefully chooses which ones they should use for the night. Rodimus wiggles out of his soft cocoon as he does, splaying himself out on the berth as Thunderclash pours a measure of golden, sweet-smelling oil into his hands. It shimmers red in the light, and he knows it will highlight each curve of Rodimus’s frame perfectly. 

The handle of the valve plug is thrust out lewdly in the air, nestled as it is between swollen valve lips, but Thunderclash will touch that last, working it out with careful touches. For now he drips the oil over his round belly, working it into the pliant plating. Inside him his nanites slosh, moving around with each careful touch. The plating over his belly is gapped out and warm, and they won’t quite resettle for another few days. Thunderclash will get to watch them work themselves back into shape, over the course of a few days. He can’t wait. 

His plating soaks up the oil easily, and Thunderclash works it down, over his hips. Here he pays careful attention to his hip joints, which had been spread wide over the course of the night and strained from the effort of it. He works it into the sensitive inside of his thighs, along the seams there over the top of them, until his hips are completely relaxed. It’s only then that Thunderclash ventures to approach the tight ring of mesh around the handle of the plug. 

Thunderclash pours an ample amount of oil into his hand, gathering it up on his fingers and slathering the mesh around the plug with it. He massages it in with just the tips of his fingers, wincing when Rodimus makes pained noises. He rubs his thumb over his recessed spike tip soothingly, the neglected interfacing component responding enthusiastically to his attentions and distracting his mate from the pain of loosening up calipers that were only just recovering. Still, it takes two hands to work the plug loose from his valve, and Thunderclash has to tease the calipers loose as he goes. “You’re so tight, spark light.” Rodimus is too wrung out for his spike to rise out of its sheathe, but he knows that the dull pleasure is enough to keep the sharp sting of Thunderclash finally working the heavy plug free of his valve from hurting him. It almost makes a _pop_ ing sound when the width of it pulls free, lubricants and transfluids gushing out of the overstretched hole and onto the towel spread out beneath his aft. 

Thunderclash quickly gathers Rodimus’s thighs in his palms, pushing them up and out towards Rodimus’s chest, optics riveted on the steady, high arch of transfluids pouring out of Rodimus’s wrecked little valve. It only takes a moment for them to settle into a river that tapers off into a dribble, his entire tank’s worth of transfluids soaked up by the towel. Rodimus groans in bare relieve as he’s finally empty again. “Frag, you filled me up. “

“Sorry, Rodimus.” He lowers Rodimus’s legs slowly, tugging the towel free from under him and tossing it into the hamper they keep by the door. It hits the wall with a wet slap and fall into it. He’ll have to take them down to the laundry soon, or it will make the hab smell. 

“Don’t be. It was amazing.” He keeps his thighs open, knowing what comes next. 

Thunderclash gathers more oil on his fingers, cupping a small well of it in his palm. He circles Rodimus’s twitching entrance with his forefinger, wetting the edge with oil. When he presses into the first knuckle the little valve suckles at it, and Rodimus groans in something caught between pain and pleasure. 

He hums softly, tilting his hand to let more oil drip onto that lovely valve. He massages his soft, thin inner petals with three of his free fingers, avoiding his node. The point isn’t pleasure here, but relaxation. Leaving him lose and warm will keep him from hurting so much in the morning. He works oil into every crease and crevasse of that lovely valve, soaking the mesh through, petting Rodimus’s hip whenever he starts to get worked up. “Beautiful, star fire, you’re doing so well.” 

Rodimus laughs at the nickname, like Thunderclash knew he would, and lets him close up his panel for him. He rolls into Thunderclash’s side as he lays down on the berth next to him, seeking the heat of his frame. “I loved it. Thanks, ‘Clash.” 

“You did beautifully for me, my love. I’m proud of you.” 

Rodimus glows at the praise, and Thunderclash kisses the tip of his nose as he reaches for the blanket folded at the head of the berth next to his helm, pulling it over both of them. In the morning he’ll massage the aches away from his frame, but for now it’s time for both of them to sleep.


End file.
